


Blue jeans, white shirt

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:58:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	Blue jeans, white shirt

Blue jeans, white shirt 

Something or another based of Blue Jeans by the great Lana Del Ray.

 

He doesn’t make standing in long, boring, dreadful lines a habit. In fact, he can’t fucking stands lines.  There’s something about strangers standing in single file order, all going to the same place, taking their sweet time with no absolute consideration of others that just pisses Louis off. So he doesn’t get in lines. A lot of the time, anyway.

But sometimes Louis can make exceptions. Standing in this long-ass line in a small, hipster-y café  waiting to wrap his numb, winter-bitten hands around a hot cup of cocoa is an exception. Because _fuck_ , it’s the middle of fucking December—there are piles of fresh snow on the sidewalks and you can only try and jump over them so many times before you slip on a patch of ice, causing you to fall, completely soaking your left side (and your favourite pair of blue canvas espadrilles, because they look cute no matter the weather conditions), leaving you numb and freezing your balls off.

So yes, Louis thinks, it is okay to stand in _this_ line for a cup of hot, hot, hot cocoa.

He just wishes the asshole four people up would just finally choose if he wants his coffee with skim or soy, because Louis really does think his balls are frozen;  he’s pretty sure they’re purple, ready to fall off and that it would make the rest of his life rather sad.

He reaches the register and suddenly the reason why everyone has been taking their sweet time clicks in his brain, because the reason is all long limbs with wild curls and a pair of mint green eyes and _damn_.   Suddenly Louis wishes he had worn his tightest jeans, the ones that hugged his arse like a little girl hugs her first puppy, and perhaps he should of styled his hair differently because it’s now wet and sticking to his forehead from the fucking snow and—

And _Damn_ is talking now but Louis only knows this because he’s staring at a pair of sinful red lips that are moving slowly until a small laugh bursts from them and his eyes snap back up to a pair of highly amused greens.

“Sorry?”

 _Damn_ laughs again, “I asked what you wanted, mate?”

Louis can’t remember why he came into the hipster-filled café in the first place. And Harry—according to the name tag pinned on a dark blue jumper—looks at him patiently. Louis fidgets, eyes trying (and failing, miserably) to focus on the chalk board behind Harrys’ head, but _chai latte grande tea soy cinnamon_ all blur together, and _wouldn’t it be simpler if_ Harry _was on the menu?_

A sudden burst of laughter comes from Harry, who quickly covers his mouth, a bright red flush colouring his face. “Sorry, pal, but it’s against company policy...”

Now Louis can’t feel the numb in his toes, or cold on his ass, everything now is warm—fuck that, everything is hot as hell because he actually did just ask if Harry was on the menu. Out loud. And Harry, the cheeky, beautiful bastard, the cashier of a small café  filled with uni students tapping away at their expensive Macs surely making witty posts on tumble or whatever, heard.

“I just, uh,” Louis can’t breathe. “Hot chocolate. Please.” He abruptly misses the cold. He really, _really_ just wants to walk out the door, away from Harry and his tight blue jumper and his sharp minty eyes—and _god_ , dimples? Dimples, too? Was this some kind of punishment?—and fall face first into a pile of snow and stay there until the sun comes out and melts the snow and him, too, falling into the deep cracks of the sidewalks.

Harry nods, “Hot cocoa. Name?”

“Louis. With an S.”

Harry smiles, “With an S. Like a king,” and scribbles Louis’ name on large Styrofoam cup.”It’ll be right up, King Louis.” He turns and starts making it himself, ignoring the confused looks of his co-workers who are just joking around, because, oh, Louis realizes there isn’t anybody in line behind him and...  And nothing because do cashiers usually prepare orders at hipster café s that have Regina Spektor playing when there are three other available people? 

He tries to ignore the sudden thumpthumpthump inside his chest when Harry returns with his cocoa. He tries to fight the blush creeping upon his face when Harry smirks and waves the money in his hand away with a laugh because _don’t worry, it’s on the house_. (There was nothing he could do when he tripped over his own feet and stumbled out the door like a drunk. He tried to ignore the laughter behind him that sounded like wind chimes. The keyword being tried.)

It isn’t until he reaches his flat that he sees a crooked smiley face underneath neatly written _Louis_ and a scrawled phone number. Harry the gorgeous as hell cashier gave him a number.

 _Fuck yes_.

 

\---

“I’m so glad its Friday. This has honestly been such a long week; I swear I was ‘bout to punch my boss in the face this morning. I can’t—“

“I gave this hot guy my number.”

Niall shrugs, giving Harry his confused look—where his eyebrows meet, his thin lips pout a little, and his head tilts to the left. Like a fucking puppy. “And?”

Harry drops himself on their leather sofa, taking his iPhone and tossing it besides him. “I gave him my number on Monday. He hasn’t called, Niall.”

Niall laughs, _really_ laughs. The kind of laugh where there is snorting, tears threatening to roll down flushed cheeks, the kind of laugh that makes Harry want to punch his best mate in the dick.  “Mate, I know this is gonna be hard to understand—but just because a lot of guys, and girls, throw themselves at you, doesn’t mean _everyone_ is interested in some Harry lovin’.”

“No, trust me, he was definitely into me. No way could I misinterpret anything.”

“I dun’ know then, Harold. Maybe he just never saw it,” Niall shrugs again, un-pausing his game of car racing. “Wait,” he pauses it again, “was this at work?”

He doesn’t reply instantly, hesitating, eyes rolled up towards their ceiling. “Uh, yeah. There’s a weird purple stain on the ceiling.”

Niall doesn’t bother looking up, a big grin stretched across his face, “So what? D’ya write your number on his latte? ‘ _Call me maybe’_?”

“Niall—“

“Did you draw little hearts around his name?”

“No, you arse. I—“

Niall interrupts again, “That’s so fucking cliché, ‘m honestly embarrassed to be your mate.”

Harry frowns, reaching for his phone and unlocking it. “But he didn’t text... Why didn’t he text if he wanted me to be on the menu?”

 

\---

His head is pounding and Louis is a hundred and ten percent sure that it’s not even midnight yet. When did he become a lightweight? Louis frowns, staring down at the delicious vodka mixture in his cup, is it because he’s _old_ now? “Do old people not handle their liquor well?” So maybe he is being a little paranoid—it’s a brand new year (almost) and he’s been drinking since Christmas (his birthday), and _fucking shit_ , he really is twenty-two now.

“Maybe you should cool it for a bit,” Liam comes from out of nowhere, with his stupid concerned face and his stupid furrowed eyebrows and the stupid set lines that appear on his forehead when he’s dealing with Louis.

Tears prickle at the rims of Louis’ eyes and, okay, when did he become a depressing drunk? His mood is hazy and dark and he just needs air, he needs to breathe, to get away from the crowd of strangers all happy and drunk that invade his living room. _Air_ , fucking air. “I’m just—I.” His cloudy sapphire eyes glance down quickly at the sparkling new ring on Liam’s hand and before he can stop himself,”I’m really happy for you two.”  Louis doesn’t stop himself to see Liam’s reaction, instead he pushes past him with a little too much force; knocking into his mates shoulder.

His mind is just turning and running, his lungs can’t find the oxygen in the room, so he’s climbing the stairs two at a time up to the empty terrace.  He slams the door open and breathes in, and his lungs eat all the air up happily. He makes his way to the edge, leaning against the sturdy fence. London’s busy, with its twinkly lights and streets full of noisy people celebrating the New Year.

Louis loves London. Ever since his first trip to his grandfathers’ he fell in love with the bustling city and crowds and just all the _life_. His grandfather passed away three weeks after he graduated from secondary school, and he had no clue what to do with his life. He had applied to several schools in England, but he wanted London. He wanted the city with its lights, its people, and its life. So he was surprised at finding out his grandfather had left him his flat in a nice complex with a private rooftop in the heart of London. 

So fuck it all if he and Zayn didn’t come out to the city almost immediately, both broke students with big dreams and an amazing three bedroom flat and two baths.

The wind howls and wraps itself around Louis’ small body. He sure hadn’t thought about grabbing a jumper before making his dramatic disappearance. _God_ , how the hell was he going to explain that to Zayn? Zayn with his dirty honey eyes full of trust and his stupid tattoos that he only gets with Louis because _Louis knows_ _how to hold my hand just right_ , Zayn, his best mate who was going to get married to his boyfriend of two years.

The door slams again, startling Louis out of his rhythmic thoughts, and he frowns because no one is supposed to have access to the rooftop. Only with a key, but—

“King Louis.”

And there is Harry the cashier of the hipster café with the curls and the minty eyes and the long fingers and pale skin and rusty voice—Harry.

And the warmth comes back rushing into his body—knocking into his lungs, colliding with his organs, grabbing onto his bones. This time there is a different type of shiver, not one caused by the winter wind. “Hi.”

Harry smiles faintly, “Hi.” He walks towards Louis, leaning on the edge, facing the city. “What a night.”

Louis just nods, his body is radiating with heat, and his senses overwhelmed by Harry’s warmth and his... scent. Louis breathes in deeply and he’s hit by the fading scent of coconut shampoo, the lingering smell of coffee, most likely from the café. There is strong, clean cologne that Louis feels familiar, but can’t put a name on, and it could honestly be one of those expensive scents that come in magazines that he likes to rub on himself.

Harry pulls a pack of reds out from his back pocket (how is a good question considering his dark blue jeans are like another layer of skin), “Do you mind?”

He just shakes his head no, because, _really_ , how can you expect Louis to say anything when his mind is clouded with Harry and his scent and his fucking heat?

Harry covers his lighter with a long, pale hand and after two tries it lights. His rose-tinted lips wrap around the fag in a sinful way and he sucks in deeply. Long fingers bring the cigarette down and full lips blow the toxic out slowly.

And Louis has never been so mesmerized and he sends the creator of cigarettes a silent thank you, because _holy shit damn fucking oh my god_ that was the hottest thing he has ever seen.

Harry catches him starring. “I’m sorry, would you like one?” He reaches for his back pocket again.

“No, no.” Louis is thankful it’s almost midnight; otherwise the blush on his face (and the awkward situation in his jeans) would’ve been embarrassing.  The wind howls again, rippling through Louis’ body and teenagers on the street with wine bottles hanging loosely in their hands start singing a Bieber song. 

“Jesus, aren’t you freezing?” Harrys’ empty hand wraps around Louis’ bicep, winter on summer, and he lets out a small yelp. “You’re fucking freezing!”

Is he? Because Louis feels like an erupting volcano and his blood flows like lava. 

He shakes his head no, “I’m fine, I—“

But Harry is putting out his cigarette, stomping on it with a bit too much force, and shrugging out of a dark gray peacoat. “Here, have this.” He has a fluffy white jumper with criss-cross patterns, but still Louis is _just fine_.

“Fine, my arse. Just take it, Louis.”

So Louis does; he carefully inserts his arms where long pale limbs should go, and it hangs off him significantly, much too big. But it’s warm and it smells like Harry—like lingering smoke, fading coconuts, rich coffee, and expensive cologne. He’s cuddling in it, the wool fabric scratching against his chin, and wow; he’s such a teen girl.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Harry whispers back.

It’s all silent from the rooftop; below them the streets are crowded with happy drunks. Fireworks explode from afar, by the London Bridge, and the sky explodes with silver and gold.

“Why are you up here anyway?” Louis remembers that the roof top is always off-limits to the party guests, and he’s guessing Harry is a party guest; otherwise he’s just a trespasser.

Harry grins, a hidden dimple pops up. “Why are _you_ here, King Louis?”

“Because,” Louis grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an adorable way Harry isn’t failing to notice, “I am the king and this is my palace!” He steps back from the cement fence and spreads his arms out like an eagle.

Harry laughs—the sound echoing through the lofty terrace. “Oh, so you’re Liam’s roommate? The drama major?”

“Uh,” Louis rolls his eyes. “No, I’m Zayn’s roommate. Liam is just fucking Zayn, so he sleeps here a lot.” Okay, that was unnecessary and harsh, and so fucking _untrue_.

Harry bites his lip and nods, a chocolate curl falling into his eye. “Aren’t they like, engaged, or whatever?” He turns his back to where Louis is standing and watches the people below.

“Yep.”

There are more fireworks in the distance, each one bigger than the last one, all bright and promising. It must be getting close to midnight.

The air between them is awkward and frosty, and the last thing Louis wants is for Harry to go back downstairs to join the party and most likely his friends who are waiting for him. No one has said anything since Louis’ last mumbled words, and that was three of the longest minuets of his life.

“It’s almost midnight. Two thousand fourteen,” Harry smiles slightly.

“Did you do anything good this year, Harry?”

His grin becomes wider, and Harry scoots closer to the older lad. “I made music. I met some pretty great people,” green eyes flash to sky blue ones. “I learned a lot.”

“Good things I hope,” Louis says. He’s cuddling into the wool coat again and he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to move again.

Harry laughs again, and Louis wishes there was a way to capture the moment; it’s something he never wants to forget—the way Harry’s wide eyes become smaller as he squints. Harry’s full red lips stretching out into a grin, teeth white and shiny like Chiclets.  The dimple, the fucking dimple that appears on cue to accompany the beautiful smile, and the sound of his laughter. The sound of Harry laughing is enough for Louis.

Louis knows he’s starring bluntly at Harry, but okay, Harry’s starring back. When did they get so close together? He can feel the small cloud of cold coming from Harry’s lips on his face as they get closer to his own lips.

And then it’s static, pure electricity that ripples through Louis’ body when their lips press together — full, red-bitten lips joining thin, cotton candy-tinted ones.

Harry moves hesitantly against Louis. New, uncharted territory that Harry wants to know in and out, lips he wants to spend lazy mornings exploring and late nights memorizing.

It’s a slow kiss, an unexpected, pleasantly surprising, yet small kiss. A kiss that leaves behind questions more than anything else.

They pull away with Louis in soft giggles and Harry with a blush on his cheeks, just like kids from year nine instead of uni students.

Chanting comes from down below in loud, rushed yells.

 _Ten_.

“Harry, I—“

 _Nine_ , _eight_.

Harry interrupts, “We really shouldn’t break tradition,” grabbing Louis by his waist.

 _Seven_... _six_...

“We mustn’t.” Louis places both hands on the younger lads’ low back, inching himself as close as humanly possible to the soft, toned, warm body of the boy who kissed him, the lad who caused electricity inside of him.

 _Five_... _Four... Three..._

“Happy New Year, Louis.”

_Two...One._

Then fireworks explode around them, bursting through the dark, cold London night in pops of blues, greens, reds, silvers, and golds.

Yes, it’s fucking cliché, standing underneath fireworks embraced in each other, but Louis is being kissed, thoroughly kissed, by Harry the cashier of a hipster café who gives him free hot cocoas and buys expensive cologne but cheap shampoos, Harry who makes music and likes to sneak on rooftops of strange flats to smoke Marlboros, Harry who wears jeans so tight even air can’t squeeze in, Harry with the mysterious sea eyes and wicked rosy lips.

Louis has his own fireworks exploding inside of him, and there’s a large set of hands on his bum, and his own two feet are moving them backwards until Harry’s calves reach the terrace lounger. Suddenly Louis is laying on top of Harry’s long body, with hands still on his bum, lips on his neck, and he can’t even _think_ , but it’s perfectly okay because Harry is back on his lips and something is pressing into his lower thigh and _oh_.

Later, in the early morning when the sun starts coming up and the sky is painted with streaks of pink, orange, and yellow, they slowly get up from the lounger; their bones cracking with the soreness of being in one position for so long.

Louis wakes up around two in the afternoon to an empty, cold bed. Instead of a long, warm body and a deep voice, there is a green sticky note with an unfamiliar number.

_You better call me this time._

_Harry xx_


End file.
